


Devil Went Down To Georgia, The

by Ursula



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-31
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:13:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ursula/pseuds/Ursula
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Devil Went Down To Georgia, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

The Devil Went Down to Georgia by Ursula

Title: The Devil Went Down to Georgia  
Author/pseudonym: Ursula  
Fandom: X Files  
Genre: Slash  
Pairing: Skinner/Krycek  
Rating: Not even R...what's wrong with me?  
Status: New  
Archive: Anywhere, as a complete story. If you have a constructive critique and wish to use a portion, contact me directly.  
E-mail address for feedback: or   
Series/Sequel: Is this story part of a series: No  
Other web sites: My page at RATB, thanks to Ned & Leny: http://www.squidge.org/terma/ursula/ursula.htm  
Disclaimers: Still doesn't belong to me, but not for lack of wishing. The Lyrics are as arranged for the Charlie Daniel's Band. The idea is an old one, old as Orpheus.  
Notes: Josan, Josan, Josan...gave me yet another obsession...the Adoptive Mother of Skinner/Krycek  
Thanks to Peach and Russian Rat for a last minute beta!  
Time Frame: Season Eight

* * *

The Devil went down to Georgia....  
By Ursula for Josan's Birthday

Three day drunk...

Unshaven, bare of foot, naked chest, jeans unzipped, Walter stumbled to the door of his uncle's Georgia cabin. He hoped the knock at the door was the clerk from the store, delivering a few groceries and a lot of liquor. He had a burning void within that he wanted to fill up with booze. He didn't really think there was enough whiskey in the world to make the pain go away, but the blessed relief of oblivion would do if he could achieve that numb state.

Blinking in the weak light of the fall day, Walter saw the tidy brown uniform of an UPS man. "What? You must have the wrong place. I didn't order anything."

"Walter Skinner?" the man asked.

"Yes, I'm Skinner, but no one is even supposed to know I'm here," Walter said.

"Some one does. Here, sign for this," the man said, holding out one of those electronic pads that reminded Walter of the Etch-A-Sketch of his youth.

Following habit, Walter signed. The man carted in a box repeatedly stamped, 'delicate' 'breakable'.

An examination of the address label indicated Washington DC as the sending point. According to the box, Walter had mailed this to himself.

If he had any caution left or any desire for life, Walter wouldn't have opened the box, but his will to go on was as dead as...

Krycek...

It was Alex's guitar. His Acoustic Martin. His beloved.

Walter remembered sweet summer nights, bare feet, battered jeans, guitars picked until dawn or until they put the instruments aside to make different music in the big bed with the blue patchwork quilt.

When Alex had fled, he had left the guitar.

When Walter found it, heat had suffused him. His face red in rage, Walter had held the guitar high to smash to the ground. Something stopped him. He had taken the guitar to Helmer's and placed it in the climate-controlled storage. Every month he had paid the bill without thinking about it until Alex had died. Until he had killed him. So that explained it. He had arranged for Kim Cook to forward his mail.

Helmer's must have shipped the instrument back to him with the prepaid deposit. Kim would not have known that the box held a Pandora's box of bad memories. Walter laid the guitar on the table and decided he was sober enough to drive to the store.

OooOooO

The guitar in its battered case still waited on the table when Walter returned. He made some soup, ate it, took a shower, shot back a few slugs of Southern Comfort, and found the instrument in his hands without thinking about it. He picked out a tune, finding the instrument as mellow and deep-voiced as he remembered it. The smooth wood felt warm in his hands, smooth, silken as Alex's skin.

It sounded good. Walter shrugged. He hadn't brought his guitar. He hadn't played since Alex left. He had put aside his childish things when his life had fallen in the ashes. His hands still knew their way about the strings. He was surprised at how good he sounded.

Walter played 'The Hanging Tree', 'The House Carpenter', 'Two Sisters', 'House of the Rising Sun'.

How it all came back to him! He played until he fell asleep and woke catching the guitar before it could fall.

The next week was spent drinking and picking. He had never sounded as good as he did on Alex's guitar. It wasn't just his ears. The delivery boy stayed and listened for hours; brought back his dad to hear Sergei's nephew play the guitar.

Locals, who dropped by to hear him play, interrupted Walter's solitude. At first, it annoyed him. How was a man to drink himself to death with all this company? Gradually, Walter found a peace in the company of these people who asked nothing of him but music. They liked him. They didn't ask for much, just a song or two, and they brought him food. Walter found he hardly needed to shop or even to cook. He never asked them for anything and would have refused the gifts if they were not left anonymously on his doorstep.

OooOooO

As fall grew colder even in Georgia, Walter looked at the kudzu covering the hillside and thought that maybe he wanted to live. He couldn't envision going back to his job, but he could see continuing in this quiet life, living on his retirement.

Looking up from chopping wood, Walter found Mr. Fitch standing watching him. Walter said, "Hello."

Old Man Fitch, whose real first name was never used...if he ever had another, was old as the hills. A neatly trimmed beard curled down to his chest. His hazel eyes contrasted with a face the color of burnt oak. He was a good part Cherokee, people said. Maybe a little African blood in the mix. He was tall, lean, with jagged features as if life had eroded him to the bedrock of his body.

"I came to sit a spell with you," Old Man Fitch said.

"Let me stack this wood," Walter said, "And I'll be glad to do that."

"Have some of this chocolate cake?" Walter said.

"Don't mind if I do," Old Man Fitch said.

"Whiskey or coffee?" Walter asked.

"I'd like some tea," the man said.

"Tea it is," Walter agreed. He put the kettle on and cut a slice of the rich chocolate cake that had appeared in a basket by the door. Walter had found if he put the basket and the plates back out there that they would disappear as neatly as they had appeared.

"You want to hear something?" Walter asked, the guitar coming naturally into his hands.

"Not today, I came to tell you something," Old Man Fitch said.

Walter glanced at the stern face and waited politely, but the old man merely sat there with his gnarled hands folded in his lap. He sat very stiffly in his worn, but neatly pressed suit. He obviously regarded this as nearly church-serious business. Realizing that the man would not speak until the polite gestures had been made, Walter put a napkin and plate in front of the man. He took down a pair of teacups that were a cream-colored, sturdy old mail order china pattern that had been left in the cupboard when Uncle Sergei had died.

Old Man Fitch said, "I remember these cups. Your Uncle Sergei was a fine man. You take after him more than you look like your father."

"I've been told," Walter agreed. He sat down, idling over his own teacup until Old Man Fitch had finished tea and cake.

"It's a full moon tonight," Fitch said.

"Yes, I read that in the farmer's almanac," Walter agreed. He knew better than to push. These old Georgia mountain folk were on their own time zone.

"Hallows Eve, not a good time of the year for a full moon," Fitch said. "What are you planning to do tonight?"

This was unusual. One of the reasons Walter liked it here was that no one minded his business. After years of being spied upon, fearful of the FBI moral code and Spender's willingness to blackmail him, Walter preferred a place where good folks didn't inquire into your life without an invitation.

Old Man Fitch blinked his eyes slowly, as good as a nervous shudder from someone else. He said, "I'm not meaning to pry, but I came to ask you not to play your guitar tonight. Bad things happen on this mountain when a master guitarist plays on the full moon if it falls on All Hallows Eve."

A strangled laugh ripped from Walter before he could stop himself. This made him miss Mulder all the more.

The Old Man said, "That song was not just a modern foolery. The old songs were all meant to teach and to remember important events. The Devil walks these hills on Halloween night."

Long practice with keeping a poker face when confronted with the improbable helped Walter regain his composure. He said, "I'm sure I can keep from playing the guitar for one night, Mr. Fitch."

The old man said, "Let me take it with me so you won't be tempted. The Devil is looking for a soul to steal and I sense that yours is at risk."

Before the hand could profane Alex's guitar, Walter snatched it away. He said, "No one touches this but me. Thank you kindly for your advice. Now you should start on your way. These roads are treacherous even in strong moon light."

The old man said, "I meant no offense, Mr. Skinner. You look like a haunted man and I know that the Devil tempts those who have lost the most."

Walter laughed now and said, "No offense taken, but I do have things to do..."

OooOooO

After bringing in enough firewood to keep the wood stove happy, Walter sat and wrote a few letters to relatives and to his few remaining friends. He missed the world he had left behind, but not the memories. He would gladly have given them all to the wind and forgotten even Sharon and especially, he would have forgotten Alex.

Still feeling cold, Walter built a roaring fire and pulled his chair close to it. Automatically, he brought the guitar and the Southern Comfort.

Without thinking, Walter found himself strumming the guitar. Ah, fuck it. His fingers found the chords for "The Devil Went Down in Georgia."

Let the devil show his face...Walter had a few things to say to him.

The sounds died away as Walter tossed back the remaining whiskey. It was a full two fingers, but he didn't even feel it. He did feel the warmth now and reached for the poker to rearrange the logs in preparation to dampen the fire. As the poker touched the logs, a sudden roar came from the flames. Walter jumped back as a ball of fire danced forth and then he held his breath as the shape of Alex Krycek formed out of the smoke and fire.

The scent of brimstone clung to the dapper figure, which resembled his old lover, and enemy...if Alex had ever sported red wings, neat goat horns, and had crimson eyes.

"Alex?" Walter asked.

"Sorry, not quite," the man said cheerfully. "My name is Maximillian, a close associate of Lucifer and some say the angel that could give him the running for most beautiful celestial spirit."

"You don't look very celestial to me," Walter observed.

"Ah, well, in the long run, there are many changes in fortune," Maximillian said.

Walter noticed that the demon was carrying a briefcase and a fiddle case. He said, "Don't tell me that you came to reenact that song?"

"Tradition has its uses," Maximillian said. "Of course, if you'd like to yield your soul promptly, I could make it very enjoyable. I started on the bottom rung as a succubi as dear old dad did not believe in nepotism. I made many excellent bargains in that role. Looked great on my resume."

"Not remotely tempted," Walter lied.

"Unfortunate," Maximillian said, "you look as if you have stamina. I do appreciate a human with stamina."

"You have nothing to offer me," Walter said. "A human devil showed me how bargains with devils go."

"Nothing? Oh my, that sounds so sad," Maximillian said, his handsome features contorting in a mockery of Alex's contrite expression. He set the briefcase on the table, opened it and took out a laptop. He booted up and fumed as the thing buzzed and grated endlessly. "Pardon me, AOHELL is my father's idea of continuing torment...the network that never connects. I'll be damned if I'm not kicked off as soon as I connect."

After a few attempts, Maximillian managed to download whatever information he needed. He said, "Hmm, it seems you do have a deadly regret. I think we can make a bargain, Mr. Skinner. There is a certain lost soul close to your heart. Play against me and Alex Krycek could be restored to your side, human, warm, loving, and grateful. He would be everything you wanted him to be."

"He's in hell?" Walter asked.

"Not exactly, after all even Agent Mulder didn't think his moral dipstick was bone dry," the devil said. "He's in Purgatory, unable to go either way. As such, he can be brought back to life to finish the balance."

"No," Walter said. Then he had a thought. He said, "If I played and won, could Alex go to heaven? Could you issue a quit-claim on his soul?"

"Certainly, a bit irregular, but do-able," Maximillian said. He sat down at the kitchen table and tapped out a contract. He printed the document and handed it to Walter.

"Shouldn't this be signed in blood?" Skinner said.

"Oh my, no, that's so unsanitary," Maximillian said, "Didn't you take AIDS awareness classes?"

"Yes, but..." Walter started before giving up arguing with the devil as a bad cause. He took the monogrammed pen and signed the contract after making a few changes in the small print.

Maximillian grumbled and said, "I forgot that you had a law degree. I don't know why my father thought a lawyer had a soul to steal. It must be punishment for my Oedipal complex."

"You wanted to sleep with your mother?" Walter said.

"Don't be foolish. Certainly, I didn't want to sleep with my mother. Angels don't have mothers. No, I wanted to sleep with my father's main squeeze, Oedipus. Greek love is so invigorating."

Walter wondered if the demon was joking, but Maximillian didn't even have a twinkle in his ruby-red eyes.

"Who is to be the judge?" Walter asked belatedly.

"Musicians, of course," Maximillian said. "By ancient agreement, they all go to heaven. The devil can not keep them in hell. They cheer up the inmates and know too many revolutionary songs. However, they are fair judges. They can not lie about music even to save a soul."

With a snap of his fingers, the jury appeared. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Beethoven, Mozart, Johnny Be Good, Elvis, Django, Pops Stables, Joe Williams, and Freddie Mercury. Buddy Holly wore the judge's robes.

Walter drew a deep breath and picked up Alex's guitar. He closed his eyes and remembered the way his lover looked in the middle of an earth shaking orgasm. He remembered the beauty of his lover's eyes and the sweetness of his kisses.

"Forgive me," Walter said as his fingers stroked the strings with the pick.

The door blew open and the fire blew out as Alex appeared in a cloud of mist. He stood, his hand held out beseechingly to Walter.

"I'll save you, my love," Walter said. He didn't expect to go to heaven. He had killed the person he loved best. He was in hell right now.

His fingers stroked out a love song, full of yearning, but the devil replied with a wild song of love betrayed, of lovers cheated.

For every song that Walter played, the violin begged and whimpered like a needy lover. It cried like a baby and sang like a nightingale. The devil played on, riding the crest of his own joy.

As Walter beheld his lover's wraith, he cared nothing for the contest. He sang to Alex, only to Alex,

"O fare you well, I must be gone And leave you for a while: But wherever I go, I will return, If I go ten thousand mile, my dear, If I go ten thousand mile.

Ten thousand miles it is so far To leave me here alone, Whilst I may lie, lament and cry, And you will not hear my moan, my dear, And you will not hear my moan.

The crow that is so black, my dear, Shall change his colour white; And if ever I prove false to thee, The day shall turn to night, my dear, The day shall turn to night."

As his fingers found the chords and his voice a true deep timbre, he saw the wraith smile and Alex whispered, "Forgive you, love, forgive you."

And Walter was happy. He didn't care if the devil won.

The first laurel wreath fell at his feet and another. Finally all twelve were piled at Walter's feet. He had won.

Maximillian said, a sulk on his handsome face, "Damn! I knew I should have picked Sid Vicious as the judge!"

Looking disdainfully at Walter, Maximillian said, "You fool, you chose heaven when you could have chosen to have him back!"

With a furious flaunting of flame, Maximillian snapped his fingers and the cabin lit with white heat. He walked back into the fire as the musicians held an impromptu jam session.

Walter listened, smiling, and joined in. He closed his eyes as he heard the music fade back to heaven. He felt in his heart that the devil had no choice but to keep his bargain. Alex's soul was saved. He would find heaven.

Warm, real flesh touched his hand. Walter opened his eyes and saw Alex standing with him. He said, "Maximillian?", but it was his lover. There were his eyes, green, softly glowing eyes, full of love for him.

"Walter, I've come back," Alex said.

"But you were supposed to go to paradise," Walter cried, thinking his lover had been cheated.

"I am. Here with you...what other heaven would I choose?" Alex said.

As Walter drew his beloved close, the guitar slipped from his hand unnoticed. They needed no other music but lips meeting lips. Hands touching hands. Never parted...never.

The end

                            

The devil went down to Georgia, he was lookin' for a soul to steal.  
He was in a bind 'cuz he was way behind and he was willin' to make a deal.  
When he came across this young man sawin' on a fiddle and playin' it hot.

And the devil jumped up on a hickory stump and said, "Boy, let me tell you what."

I guess you didn't know it, but I'm a fiddle player, too.  
And if you care to take a dare, I'll make a bet with you.  
Now, you play a pretty good fiddle, boy, but give the devil his due.  
I'll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, 'cuz I think I'm better than you.

The boy said, "My name's Johnny" and it might be a sin  
but I'll take your bet; you're gonna regret,  
'cause I'm the best that's ever been.

Johnny, rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard,  
'Cause Hell's broke loose in Georgia, and the devil deals the cards.  
And if you win, you'll get this shiny fiddle made of gold,  
but if you lose, the devil gets your soul...

The devil opened up his case and he said I'll start this show.  
And fire blew from his fingertips as he rosined up his bow.  
And he pulled the bow accross the strings and it made an evil hiss.  
Then a band of demons joined in and it sounded something like this...

When the devil finished, Johnny said "Well, you're pretty good, ol' son,  
but sit down in that chair right there, and let me show you how it's done."

Fire on the mountain run, boys, run  
The devil's in the house of the risin' sun  
Chicken in the bread pan, pickin' out dough  
Granny, does your dog bite? No, child, no

The devil bowed his head because he knew that he'd beat.  
And he laid that golden fiddle on the ground by Johnny's feet.

And Johnny said, "Devil, just come on back if you ever wanna try again."  
I done told you once, you son of a b*tch, I'm the best that's ever been.

He played....

Fire on the mountain run, boys, run  
The devil's in the house of the risin' sun  
Chicken in the bread pan, pickin' out dough  
Granny, will your dog bite? No, child, no

  
Archived: November 25, 2001 


End file.
